


bury my love

by spiekiel



Series: the hundred [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, F/M, Froyo, Pining, and chipotle, bellamy is her secret service agent, clarke is the president's daughter, oblivious bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:15:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2797541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiekiel/pseuds/spiekiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Clarke fixes him with a doe-eyed stare that Bellamy has seen melt the hearts of Arab princes and stone-faced southern senators alike, but he's on-duty, and on-duty he has a built up immunity to just about all of her negotiation tactics, even the adorable underhanded ones.  "No," he says, with finality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bury my love

"No," Bellamy says."Just, no, Clarke."

 

Clarke gives him a glare over top of a tub of strawberry ice cream, her hair piled into a knot on top of her head, feet swinging from where she's sitting on the high counter."Come on, Bell.I just want to get out of the house for one night. _One_ night."

 

"I hope you realize," Bellamy says, "that every time you or your mom get it in your heads to go out on some spontaneous outing, it takes your whole detail plus six to twelve other agents, and _days_ of slogging through paperwork and red tape to make it happen."He reaches around her for a spoonful of ice cream even as she tries to twist out of reach, then makes a face as he sticks the spoon in his mouth."Why strawberry?" he bemoans.

 

Clarke wrinkles her nose at him."Because I figured maybe if you didn't like it you wouldn't steal it.Dumb of me, huh?" she fires back, then switches topics quick."It's a one-night-only exhibition, it's by a local artist and it's going to be fantastic, and if I went it would be really great for his publicity - "

 

"Why is it that you only ever decide on your evenings out _on_ the evening you want to go out, princess?" Bellamy interrupts."It's really, awfully inconvenient."

 

He leans his hip against the counter next to her, the holster of his secondary sidearm digging into a patch of skin above his belt where his button-down has ridden up, and tries hard not to feel uncomfortable about how comfortable he is in the president's residential kitchen.His tie is loose around his neck, and his suit jacket is hanging over the back of a barstool, and Clarke sways into his personal space so fractionally that he can't even see it, can only feel it peripherally.  

 

"You'll love this guy," Clarke insists, like he hasn't even argued."Monty Green.He's a genius, he paints with plant juices, he's a traditionally trained botanist.I think we should invite him to do an exhibition here."She kicks him gently, the toes of her fuzzy socks soft against his thigh, until he looks up to meet her piercing blue gaze, the one he'd recognize in any country on earth, at every stage of awareness, watery or smiling or _planning something that's going to cause him a lot of grief_ , like now."I will buy you your own tub of ice cream.I'll even write _property of Agent Blake_ on it, in glitter pen if you want."

 

Bellamy narrows his eyes at her."You don't own a glitter pen."

 

Clarke brandishes the spoon at him."Actually, I do.A little girl on a field trip gave one to me, it was very sweet.Anyways, you don't have to bring the whole cavalry, we can borrow that Mercedes from the motorcade that you're so in love with.I'm sure you can handle protecting _one_ girl on your own - "

 

Bellamy chuckles."See, that's what you always say, but then you'll escape out a back door to go do something dumb, and I end up barging into the women's bathroom with my gun drawn - "

 

Clarke smiles wide, her eyes crinkling at the edges, and Bellamy wants to kiss her more and more every day, to shut her up, to feel her pressed up against him, feel the warmth of her sunlight on his face."Like that time in the Olive Garden - " she starts, and doesn't have to say anything else, just dissolves into laughing, and Bellamy joins her.

 

He wants to wrap his arms around her and tuck her in close and feel her laugh shake his chest, but she's seventeen and she's the first daughter and he's twenty-three and he's her Secret Service agent, and he'd be no good for her, anyways, not with his one room apartment that he only ever goes back to because he can get Chinese delivery from the place down the street, not with his two-year associate's degree from a city college and the majority of his belongings packed into a duffel that usually sits on the bottom bunk in the security room on the first floor of the White House.

 

"We're still not going to the gallery," Bellamy manages, through a smile and a torrent of conflicting desires in his head - to make her happy, to keep her safe, if they can ever be one in the same."But nice try."

 

And Clarke fixes him with a doe-eyed stare that Bellamy has seen melt the hearts of Arab princes and stone-faced southern senators alike, but he's on-duty, and on-duty he has a built up immunity to just about all of her negotiation tactics, even the adorable underhanded ones."No," he says, with finality.

 

∑

 

 

Clarke and President Griffin have a complicated relationship.  

 

Bellamy wasn't around for Clarke's dad's trial, he was still in college, but he's heard the stories, seen the headlines.A prominent senator leading the inquiry into her husband's department in the EPA, the accusation of leaked government files concerning a nuclear facility, the ensuing trial, the sentencing.The fourteen-year-old daughter, caught in the middle, crying and clinging to her dad outside the court room, shoving her stone-faced mother when she tried to comfort her and being dragged off by Secret Service, because apparently one thing they don't teach you at the academy is the difference between a threat and an angry teenager.He hadn't paid too much attention at the time.

 

Then he'd been fresh out of training, top of his class, assigned to then-Vice President Griffin's daughter's detail in Jaha's White House, and he'd heard the real stories.How they yelled for weeks, Clarke and her mother, how Clarke visited her father once a week and her mother never went, how Clarke smashed a vase from the Ming dynasty and paid for the damage herself, paid for damage in her own home, how the executive suite has two floors, and Clarke lives on the bottom one, her mother on the top.  

 

When he was promoted as head agent for Clarke's detail - the one who was with her nearly twenty-four seven, got two sick days a year and Christmas could not be one of them, who had to find her quickly and quietly when she disappeared from diplomatic functions - the retiring agent Anya's only advice was, "She hates it here.She's too good for this place." 

 

After that, Bellamy expected her to be arrogant.Another politician yuppie in the making, put on this Earth to fuck things up and make his life harder, with a lipstick smile and a smart pantsuit.But - 

 

Clarke is too _good_ for this place.She planned her best friend's funeral when his father was too busy figuring out how to resign with dignity, in the absence of a First Lady she runs a charity for abused women and children, she once made such good friends with the toddler son of the president of Russia that she was able to charm her way into a peace treaty in Chechnya, she helped the wife of the Shah of Iran divorce her adulterous husband and come out of it alive, she wants to be a doctor, a pediatrician, and she's too _good._

 

She's too good to speak to her mother only twice a week, once on Sunday dinner and once during a forced lunch meeting, too good to be cooped up in this nightmare mansion, too good to sleep stiff in bed and smile stiff on Christmas, too good to have to order Indian through the most convoluted process known to man when he knows the greatest little hole-in-the-wall place down near the train station.

 

So he does his best.He sneaks her out of the Argentinian ambassador's house with the ambassador's daughter Raven, lets Raven lead them through the back streats of her crazy city, and every nerve in Bellamy's body is attune to every tiny atmospheric change for five hours, but the beautiful carefree smile on Clarke's face is worth it.He borrows the Mercedes from the motorcade and takes her for froyo, loses her out the back of the shop and tracks her down by her phone to a small antique book shop ten blocks away.He buys them inconspicuous grey hoodies and big sunglasses and he gets a holster he can hide in his civvies, and they take the train to New York for a young leaders summit, instead of flying, they detour on the way home to tour Johns Hopkins, and the dorms are small but he thinks they could both fit.

 

He loves her more every day, loves her in every manifestation and wishes, ridiculously, that he could take her home, make a new home with her, bundle her away from the world that would stand to swallow her up.

 

Only, he looks at her and she holds herself like a queen, and he thinks maybe this world was made for her.

 

∑

 

For the longest time he tried to stay professional.

 

He averted his eyes when she had to change in the back of a hired car, he stood outside the bathroom when she had to go fix her mascara during a nuclear power fundraiser, he accepted her homemade Christmas card with a small smile that betrayed nothing of the four months the card later spent on his refrigerator, he dosed her with Nyquil when she had a cold and left a box of tissues by her pillow on his way out of the room.

 

The issue was, Clarke is infectious.She worked her way into every nook and cranny of his mostly-empty heart and let the light in, and it's hard to be professional around someone who's become the singular guiding force in your life.

 

So now he does up her zipper, he holds her purse open while she dabs concealer over the redness of her eyes, every year for Christmas they have a tree and she always buys him more presents than he can afford to get her, but he kisses her on the cheek and she beams, he sits up with her and watches dubbed Bruce Lee movies when she's sick, usually he catches whatever it is too and has to force down a cup or two of his mother's vinegar remedy to get rid of the bug before it gets too bad.  

 

Now he's dozing off with Clarke's head in his lap, tugging his fingers absently through the knots in the ends of her hair, sunk into the plush leather couch cushions in Clarke's living room.The television is turned down quiet, flashing pale blue light across the dark room, some German soap opera playing on the screen, subtitles on for Bellamy's benefit, because Clarke doesn't speak German and she thinks she ought to.

 

"President of Rwanda tomorrow, right?" Bellamy asks quietly.

 

Clarke hums in affirmation, not moving her head.Bellamy thinks her eyes are closed, but he can't tell."Yeah," she mumbles."President Lexa.First woman president of the country.She's doing a lot to improve the conditions of women.We're going to negotiate some American aid."

 

"From the charity?"

 

"Maybe," Clarke muses."Probably Doctors withoud Borders or the Red Cross, though.

 

"No troops?" Bellamy asks.

 

Clarke exhales deeply, turning over on the couch to burrow her face into his stomach, her body relaxed, hip curving under the cover of a Persian afghan."I don't think inserting the military into that country would help the situation at all.They're getting better with the violence.More guns won't do any good."

 

Bellamy's fingertips ease over the side of her face, through her hairline, around her ear and down into the swoop of her neck.Her breath ruffles his untucked button-down shirt, he can feel her heartbeat against his thigh, and all he wants is to slide down to lie next to her, pull her in as close as he can, tangle their legs together and kiss her slack lips, fall asleep with her and wake up with her in the morning.

 

Instead, he says, "Early start tomorrow, princess.Better go get some real shuteye."

 

Clarke mumbles something that sounds vaguely like a protest, but it's muffled.Bellamy pokes her in the side until she groans and rolls over, glaring at him from under her hair, mussed across her face."You suck," she accuses, in German - the only German words Bellamy knows.

 

"Go to bed," Bellamy says, "or I will tell your chef that you're sneaking Chipotle behind his back."

 

As she disappears deeper into the executive suite, into her bedroom, looking soft and comfortable in her sweat pants and a tee shirt advertising a 5K for childhood leukemia, something tugs at his gut to follow her.But that would only hurt them both, he thinks.

 

 

 


End file.
